Winter 2005-2006, San Diego
I left San Francisco heartbroken. I failed in my main objective of finding traveling partners before winter. There was certain feelings that I had that certain doors weren't available to me due to an unspoken socio-economic code, and the doors that did open for me I wasn't quick enough to walk through. While I did accomplish much, but it fell short of what I needed. It was time to travel again, and there was nowhere to go but down from here. Feeling that I needed to take my meditations to the desert, I hopped a bus to San Diego.
I first arrived in the Pacific Beach neighborhood. It was quite a climate and culture shock for a guy from in-the-woods small-town Maine to be in the desert of Southern California... without sounding like too much of a hick or rube. It was my first time of any duration to hang out at the Pacific Ocean and of the first things I observed of the swarms of people on the beach, I was the only one just hanging out. Everyone else seemed to have an agenda on the beach. No swimming, no sunbathing (I guessed that was done in booths here), no casual walks, or even romantic ones, no; most of these people were monotonously running up and down, trying desperately to become that stereotypical California Blonde, to have the perfect figure they had to lose that unsightly ounce of excess body fat not liposuctioned from their anorexic plastic bodies. Not much chilling out here, so I kind of stood out, just sitting, trying to enjoy the beach. Some locals spotted me, and I learnt from them that Pacific Beach had a large 'tweak' problem, which my yokel ass didn?t understand. Methamphetamines? ohhh? and no thanks, by the way. I?ll stick to the flowery green sticky stuff.
On Southern California: "Every day is 80 degrees and sunny. People say 'Ain't it great, Bill? Every day, hot and sunny.' What are you, a fucking lizard? I have the soul of a poet -- not a Gila monster." ---Bill Hicks
At their advice, I relocated to a hostel at Ocean Beach, where, they informed me, had a bit more of a hip scene. But arriving there I was struck with an odd sensation that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Something was off in the environment and atmosphere around those parts... and I'd have months learning about the many things that were quite toxic in the area first hand as I set in for my winter hibernation/meditation. First of all, just by the attitudes of the people there, you could tell hospitality wasn't a priority to the affluent class that populated So Cal.
"This neighborhood has changed," I was told by an OB local. "Five or so years ago, there were beach parties every night, even in the winter. Bonfires would line up on the waterfront. Good times, good people. Now, there isn't anything like that going on."
What happened?
Well, in a pattern I first noticed in the Bay Area, but now I realized it was happening all over the country, the real estate boom occurred, and the middle class had been considerably weakened in the Bush economy, leading to housing and rent cost skyrocketing and only rich yuppies could afford to live around there. And they didn't do much for the culture besides sitting in their multi-million dollar homes, and not mingle with real people for something as crass as a beach party. Take that, tucked away former hip beach community!
Ah winter, that time of reflection. Even though I had escaped the climate of snow walling you in for months that I was used to, my body's seasonal circadian rhythm was still set up for the long stagnated wait of deep freeze. I went down with my usual seasonal near total debilitating series of colds and flues that strung themselves over the next three months. Even as ill as I was, I had to find work, but what jobs I could get there paid less due to the proximity of Mexico and cheap labor.
What I did make with sometimes working two jobs was barely enough to cover my lodging at hostels around town, and pure subsistence survival food.
Many lean days of potatoes and rice.
Even with this bare bones budget, I at times had to hawk my laptop computer at a pawnshop to stay afloat and fed. With a fever burning fiercely some days, I had to suffer through it, as I had no health insurance, no money for a doctor. I could only sparingly self medicate with herb, and even then I had to make $20 worth of weed (a very small amount, but about all I could afford on a weekly basis) stretch out a looong way.
All the while I was in the midst of extreme wealth and opulence. Rich people living it up, fancy cars, swank clubs... in contrast, not too many girls were impressed with the glass of water my salary could afford them.
What separated them from me? was a question that haunted me for months, and demanded an explanation.
...
In Episode 14 of Samurai Champloo, Mugen is met by a figure from his past, Mukuro, another criminal from Ryukyuu who grew up with him. Against Mugen's better judgment, they join forces for a one-shot deal: an open seas pirate heist of a government ship carrying a fortune in gold. Once the goods are secured, Mukuro betrays Mugen, as he did before when they were younger, and leaves Mugen for dead, adrift in the ocean in a storm.
As Mugen sinks to the bottom of the ocean, he has a Near Death Experience. It comes in a melancholy submerged fashion where he has a series of tormenting images and memories from his past hellish experience go slowly before his eyes.
I certainly felt a parallel to this. With long spells of fever, poverty, failing health I was in a torpor, and despair show its ugly face to me. I, like Mugen in this episode, would have haunting dreams of my own past hell, the reasons and causes for my circumstances that would resonate in dark lingering images and recalled scenes that would stick with me in my waking hours as I was constantly reminded of my plight and comparative social status. I was in the desert, in a city full of people void of spirit, alone, and I was sinking into the abyss.
The re-occurring nightmares were in the theme of recalling my life experiences at odds with the dominator system. I grew up in a very abusive household with a drug and alcohol-free father who was on a constant bender nonetheless, fueled continually by authoritarian rage with a one-two punch backed by two dominator hierarchies: Military and the Catholic Church. Home life? was not pleasant.
School was no better. Despite being an extremely accelerated learner (besides also being very imaginative, creative, and athletic), I was held back in school. I skipped a grade, which only served to put me at odds with my peers and spiteful teachers who thought I was trying to be 'better' than them.
In that my dreams reached far, far beyond life in a small mill-town in Maine
maybe I was ?better?? certainly no worse than teachers made me feel, isolating me as a "sma-aaaht?" (Mainer accented pronunciation for smart) kid, and giving me special, advanced books, which I had to read in the hallway, alone. I began to feel, and not for the first or last time, that being "smart" and "special" were serious drawbacks and disabilities.
I rebelled. Throughout elementary, junior high and high school I breezed through all the subjects, more often than not knowing more about the material that my 'teachers', I could do research projects and final essays minutes before class started and still get the highest grade, and I aced all my tests. Why then, I always confronted the task-masters, must I toil needless extra hours of my free time doing monotonous homework, when I clearly knew the subject material. Because I said so! Fall in line! Don't question your elders! Very early in life, I saw the system for what it was: the schools were just gears in an evil combine; a mill to machine all human students into dull replicas of interchangeable machine parts.
My only respite in this misery was my imagination, my creativity, my dreams of something better outside this shit-hole.
I wrote stories, drew, created comics, all in secret because my father figure took this as subversive, that it took me away from 'important' studies, and he routinely subjected my room to search and destroy missions, ripping apart my writings and art and hundreds of dollars worth of books with his bare hands.
I was being tortured slowly, with all the gears, racks, and evil tools of the machine versus my non-conformity. I told and wrote to the teachers about my home abuse. Instead of fulfilling their legal obligation to report abuse to higher authorities, such as the Dept. of Human Services, they did nothing, illegally. I went to the police and reported a known and recorded repeat child abuser in my father. They, illegally, did not act against my father, not doing their duty of protecting the innocent. Instead, they told me to find another place to sleep. So I went to my 'friends', told them of my plight and torment? none would offer more than a nights? accommodation and shelter from the constant storm.
I retreated further into my dreams and imagination to escape overwhelming depression due to outrageous oppression. Around my senior year in High School, I adopted the axiom:
For it seemed that no one cared, and I was alone in my struggle.
My only hope for the future, it seemed, was that I would soon graduate and hopefully some college or university could recognize my ability and achievements. This was also thwarted by the system.
Some teachers and administrators went out of their way to make things bad for me. I suppose they didn?t like someone smarter than they were constantly calling out their errors in class, unafraid. A group of them conspired together and changed my grades so that I would fail, and miss graduating by a manufactured .001 of a percentage point under passing.
So, no college? no escape? until, one day, I finally tried cannabis? and the fog began to clear. I learned more of the truth behind the dominator system, and how to fight back. I was kept alive by great works of fiction that saw me through, like Shinichiro Watanabe's Animatrix, and Cowboy Bebop. It wasn't until I saw Samurai Champloo that I garnered the necessary courage to make the dreams a reality, and finally travel and have adventures of my own.
<<<>>>
As all these dark memories of my past near consumed me that winter in the desert of San Diego, there was one thing in which I could find solace. There was a daily ritual I adhered to. As twilight approached, I would head down Newport Ave to the beach, hook a left at the coast and walk along the Sunset Cliffs to witness the daily spectacular sight of the sun sinking into the Pacific Ocean. Perched on the rocky shore, I made my resolves that I would survive this ordeal and overcome, and into the setting sun I would pray my intentions of my hopes for the future.
My walks along the rocky coast began to become more novel. Instead of sticking to the main dirt path, I started to take the low road by the water, which is just strewn piles of rocks and boulders. I first carefully hopped from one to the next, taking care to avoid stones that were wet and slippery. Soon, I picked up my pace and sped up, jumping from rock to rock to rock, my feet barely touching the surface before leaping to the next. I can not understate how treacherous this ?pastime? was. One false step and I would crash quite roughly onto some sharp, unyielding stones, and critical injury was one slip away. That?s what added to the exhilaration as I increased my speed even more; the allure of danger was part of the thrill.
In fact, I did falter a few times, once scuffing and bloodying my legs, and bruising my ribs. More painful though, was another time when while falling I lost hold my mp3 player, and it was swallowed by the Pacific Ocean. Take that, material possessions! The most excruciating was when I misjudged the dropping distance of a leap, and fell a bit further than I supposed I would, resulting in a jarring impact on the ball of my right heel, an injury that would having me limping noticeably for weeks.
But these wounds did not deter me, on the contrary, they strengthened my determination and courage to continue to perform this stunt.
As I walked to the cliffs, the pain at the bottom of my foot would lance through me with every step. My mind always was aware of my heel. Every other step: heel-pain, heel-pain, heel-pain... then it caught on. Every step was a step to my new resolve. Heal Pain! Heal Pain! And what better way to heal than by doing something I loved, and that was the adventure and trial of leaping from rock to rock.
I became fully alive in the moment; all thoughts of sickness, and past misery dissolved, as my whole focus and being was captured and enraptured by the task at hand. I took on these cliff faces and rocks and gaps of ocean at full speed; its an indescribable feeling, the control and awareness, bounding from stone to stone, seeing five moves ahead while presently precariously bouncing off a surface maybe two inches square, but large enough to spring to the next one. It's the closest I?ve ever come to flying with open eyes... no, it was flying.
As I saw yuppies avoiding me and quietly jogging up on the path, I'd race them down on the rocks, and beat them handedly.
They may have had their houses, cars and money, but I could risk life and limb running across rocks, and I was having more fun.
So, if you happened to be around the Sunset Cliffs, Ocean Beach, San Diego during the winter of 2005-2006 at twilight, you might have seen a figure like this:
Down and out, near broken and limping, but only one step away from true flight.
I AM ERGOAT!!!
